Mail Jeevas, Paranormal Investigator
by ShikibaOokamiDragonRider
Summary: In an alternate universe, Matt grew up tormented by his mother's mysterious death and his father's wrongful incarceration. He met Mello, they became best friends, and now Matt is a small-time Paranormal Investigator tormented by his annoying shrink, who's making him keep a journal. There will be yaoi later on, but for now, Matt has a case to work. T for swearing.
1. Devalpa

**Mail Jeevas, P. I.**

**1**

Well, um, hello there. Not gonna lie, I have no idea how to start this. I can't even believe I'm writing this.

You see, I have this shrink. Her name's 'Ramona'. She thinks I'm crazy. You know, cause of my unconventional job and the bizarre stories I tell. So she's making me keep this infantile journal in hopes that I'll "gain a better connection with the real world by writing down the simple aspects of everyday life."

Yeah, she's pretty much a cunt. A young, vivacious cunt, but a cunt nonetheless.

Should I introduce myself? Well, once all is said and done, there may just be a_ whole board _of shrinks reading this, so perhaps they should meet me via my own words and not just Ramona the Cunt's.

My full name is Mail Jeevas, and I live in a small boring apartment in the bad part of town, with peeling green walls and creaky wooden floors. I have a cat named Skully who likes to throw up a lot, and my favorite color is orange. I don't dye my hair, it's naturally this color, and yes, the carpet matches the drapes. My best friend's name is Mello—no, not like the soda, and no, there is not a 'w' on the end—and he is one psychotic mofo. (Really guys, he's the crazy one, not me.) I know no one cares about these boring facts, but I would like to point out that I am a normal, completely sane, healthy male, with normal person habits. I love video games, especially ones with aliens or mutants. I have a classic Mustang which I named Mika, and she is the sweetest ride ever. (Be jealous.) Mello gave her to me for my birthday last year (February 1st). I live off of ramen noodles and energy drinks, but with my line of work, I don't have time to care that I'll probably die from kidney failure.

Oh, that's right; you guys want to hear all about my work, don't you? Is it really so uncommon to be a _Paranormal Investigator_?

Well, I go to work every day, to my little brick office of the corner of a seedy little street downtown. My door says M. Jeevas, Paranormal, with a stylized picture of an eye underneath. What does that mean, you ask? What do I do?

Have you ever seen a documentary on ghosts? What about history channel special on UFOs? Those guys that sit there and talk about all those hauntings, those facts about abductions, and all sorts of info on cryptid creatures you've never heard of? Those are paranormal experts. And chances are, they started out like me. I investigate all those claims of hauntings, all those cases of people being attacked by Mothman, or Batboy, or the Jersey Devil. Whatever it is, I've seen it before. Nothing surprises me anymore.

Hauntings are my bread and butter. Vampire sightings are also common, especially by vapid teenage girls, for some reason. At least once a week, I get sent to the cemetery, or to some random person's house to take a look at the werewolf there—or what is usually, their pet German shepherd.

But what I live for, what I really love more than anything else in the whole world, is when I get a real case. A real ghost, a real anything, something that sends me racing to the books to find out how to kill it, how to satiate it, or simply how to send it on towards the light. And yes, believe me, these things are real. In the few years since I opened my shop, I've helped on four ghosts, encountered two werewolves, seen one startling case of voodoo incurred zombieism, killed one vampire, and dragged a kelpie out of someone's koi pond. I'm pretty small time, but I enjoy what I do.

And I am _not _delusional.

There are things out there that would send you screaming to your mommies, that would make you sleep with the lights on for the rest of your lives if you weren't too blind to see them. You say I live in fantasies, but really now, which one of us is _really_ living in a made up world? Be glad people like me are out here to keep your neighborhoods safe.

Fuck, I don't even have a mommy to run to. You want to know why? Ugh, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.

Psychologists are all the same, they all live in denial.

Oh look, now I'm all mad. I wonder if there's a psychological reason, or if I'm just pissed that my mom is dead and an innocent man is incarcerated for her murder. Maybe if courts of law gave more stature to people like me, my dad would still be free.

…

I hear a car outside. I'm at work, by the way. I hope you know that this journal thing is severely cutting into my bored as hell, throwing pencils at the ceiling cause there's nothing better to do time at work. Hopefully whoever's in the car I hear will bring me something good. Maybe it'll be so good that it takes up all my time and I won't even have time to write in this stupid-ass thing.

* * *

It was Mello. He came to bring me lunch. He knows that I'm too lazy to get up and too broke to afford gas or take out, so he brought me some lovely, _expensive as hell_ looking lobster in a Styrofoam restaurant box, from some swanky place that he frequents. You see, the thing about Mello, is he loves money. Well, not so much the green stuff itself, but the things it can buy. Generally, I'm a pretty simple man. I like my food cheap, my rent cheap, my clothes cheap, and my games expensive. That's just how it goes. But for Mello…he wants everything life has to offer. I can't blame him. When I met him in college, he was a dirt poor kid from Berlin, brought in purely on scholarships (cause _damn_ is he smart), majoring in—you'll get a kick out of this one—psychology. We had one class in common, which we both nearly flunked because of each other, and our dorm rooms were three doors apart. Now, he's supposedly a part time criminal profiler. That's what he _tells_ people, anyway. Now you explain to me how he affords to have a Hummer3 _and_ a Ginetta G60, plus real leather clothes for every day of the week, and spare cash to buy me lobster for lunch.

The best thing about Mello is that he never judged me for my career choice. I told him my life story one night (drunk after being dumped), but I remember it well enough to know he never laughed. He believes me, even the weird bits, finds some of my exploits to be great stories, and occasionally tags along. When the cases are dry and I can't pay my rent, he loans me money—but never once has he said, "Why don't you get a real job that pays?"

It's a bit strange really, considering that to most people he's a complete tool and an ass. But he never questions me, so I never question him. I don't care where he gets his money. It's nothing to me, and it's none of my business. What kind of friend would I be if I took his generosity and turned it around on him?

Obviously not a good one.

Plus he gave me a Mustang. A _Mustang_. A _sixty-nine_ Mustang. Who cares how he paid for it? It doesn't get more classic than that.

See this, you silly shrinks? I'm NORMAL. I have normal friendships and a normal house, and maybe my friends aren't so normal, but that has nothing to do with me.

Oh hey, the phone is ringing. I usually write down all my phone calls on notecards for the sake of remembering details later. Maybe this journal thing can come in handy a little. My pen is already in hand.

"Hello, this is the office of M. Jeevas, Paranormal Investigator." (This is me)

"Does the M stand for Matthew?" (This is…a little boy? He can't be more than eight, by the sounds of it. I've never actually gotten a call from a kid before. Crap, I suck at kids. I'd take a ghost over a kid any day.)

"Haha, no, but you can call me Matt if you like. What's your name, squirt?" (Oh god, I sound like an old man. 'Squirt?' What the hell was I thinking?)

"Matthew." (I should have guessed.)

"Well, what do you need with a P.I. Matthew?"

"You do monsters, right mister?" (Cringe. Monsters. Oh well, can't expect a kid to know what they're called.)

"Yep, monsters are my thing. What do you need? I charge by the day…"

"There's a Devalpa outside my house."

Well damn. He knows what it's called and where it is. And he knows what a Devalpa is! I've never heard of anyone besides myself who actually knew _that_. But this isn't good. A Devalpa, for all you "real world" folks, is an Arabian creature. He poses as an old man, a weary traveler that can't walk another step. He begs passerby for help and assistance, a ride upon their shoulders, perhaps, until he can walk again, but if anyone is kind enough to do this, from the second he is upon them he will trap them with his legs, which turn into snakes, and force them to spend the rest of their lives as his slave.

In other words, there's a hobo outside this kid's house who may or may not be a really mean and nasty Arabian parasite creature. The good thing is, in a city like this, no one looks twice at beggars, and they sure as hell don't give them piggyback rides.

The bad thing is, I have no idea how to kill this sucker.

"Okay, kid. Where do you live?" (Cue frustrated temple rubbing. How the hell am I going to fix this? I can't believe I'm getting something this good; this is _great, _but jeez. I would usually pass this off as another false alarm, but it's a _Devalpa… _Nowhere near well-known enough to be fake.)

"421 Clover Street. My house is the blue one. Please hurry!"

He hung up on me. What the hell.

Guess I'd better go take a look at that Devalpa. I guess I'll take my gun? Fat lot of good that'll probably do. Looks like I won't be sleeping tonight—the internet had better tell me how to kill this thing.

So, Ramona. You wanted details about my simple, everyday life. Well, now you're getting 'em.

I wonder how long they'll lock me up for.


	2. Drinking Games

A/N: I'm so glad people like this story; I didn't know how well it would go over, with how out-there it is. :3 It's been so fun looking things up for ideas—and I have so many plans for this, so please keep reading! Review please? Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Mail Jeevas, P.I.**

**2**

Oh man. I am so fucked. Ohhhh man.

I don't have a lot of time, but this is really important so I should probably write it down.

So I went to that kid's house to check out that Devalpa, hoping that maybe it was just an actual normal human hobo. Of course, it wasn't. It was definitely the real deal. When I showed up it pulled all of its best moves on me—you know, limping, puppy dog eyes, etc.,- but of course I ignored it and tried to find the kid. I mean, yeah it's a monster but it's not going anywhere anytime soon, and I don't work for free. It was a really bad part of town, so I was scared to death for my beautiful car and these creepy guys kept eying me up like they wanted to sell me on the black market or something. (What? I said I wasn't delusional, I never said I wasn't paranoid.) But anyway, I knocked on the door and after about five times of knocking the boy finally answered. In person he had a slight middle eastern accent and once he calmed down a bit, (I had to show him my gun before he'd believe he was safe with me. Go figure.) he explained how his grandmother had raised him on tales of strange creatures. That explained how he knew about the Devalpa.

Unfortunately, for me, and now his brother, his gram had never told him how to kill them.

You see, after that, things got hairy. One of the guys I'd caught staring at me earlier decided to come inside—and when he saw me, with a gun, next to the kid, he freaked. He started screaming at me to get away from his little brother, and then I knew nothing was going to end well. He grabbed the kid—whose name is actually Chris, by the way—and pulled a gun on me. Then, doing the _stupidest_ thing possible, he walked me out of the house at gunpoint, taking Chris with him.

Then we were all outside. WITH THE DEVALPA.

Now you'd think, oh, that's okay, no one's going to pick it up or anything, so no danger. But of course not, not with some cocky, brash teenager around. I can't hate the guy too much, cause he reminds me too much of how Mello can be sometimes, but this one isn't smart like Mello.

In fact, he's really an_ idiot_.

Right when I thought things couldn't get much worse—I'm in a terrible neighborhood, with a gun in my face, being screamed at by a jerk with anger issues, and SOME DOUCHE WAS SITTING ON MY CAR SMOKING A JOINT, and then the Devalpa decides it's a wonderful time to come up and ask the really scary angry guy for a lift.

And then, of course, the cocky imbicile decides to JUDO FLIP the Devalpa, thereby PICKING HIM UP. So within two seconds flat we went from bad situation to oh my fucking jesus that guy is being attacked by snakes. Chris was screaming, his brother was screaming, the guy leaving ashes on my car was screaming, and somehow in all of that chaos I was like

CALM.

BE CALM, MATT.

IT'S GOGGLES TIME.

(The relationship between me and my goggles is really quite simple. They stay on my head all the time, and when things get hairy and I might lose an eye, it's fucking goggles time. Plus for some reason they make me feel invincible. Please tell me _that's_ not a mental disorder too?)

So I put on my goggles, and with some unlikely stroke of half genius, I shot the Devalpa in the head. The great thing about creatures like this is they've usually been around so long, guns are a new thing to them. Being hit in the face with a hunk of lead isn't fun for anything, so for a few seconds—well; I had an extra few seconds. So I grabbed Chris and his dumbass brother, kicked the reeling Devalpa back a few paces, and somehow managed to shove them both into the backseat of my car before it recovered. I didn't have time to shoot the stoner (ugh why) but he did go flying when I took off like a bat out of hell.

To put it shortly, now I have one very confused dumbass named Julian and one very scared little boy, and they are both hiding in the safest room of my office until I can figure out how to get the very very angry Devalpa off our trail.

They're in my _bathroom_.

And I have to _pee_.

Usually I don't like to bother Mello with my cases unless he's already interested, but I really could use an extra guy with a gun around here so that I can relax enough to do research. Maybe he could teach Julian some restraint. Or at least maybe something better to do when frustrated than Judo flip hobos.

Eh who am I kidding, Mello would have done the exact same thing. They'll probably get along swell.

Doesn't change the fact that I need help. Time to call Mello. I hope he's not busy; cause that's all I need now is a pissed off Mello in my shop. Maybe I should write down this call too, so Ramona will stop questioning my "overly-dependent and needy" relationship with him. Hopefully he'll be helpful like he usually is, and I can prove that bitch wrong.

It's not "dependent" if he _offers_. I mean come _on_.

Dial his number. Ringing…

"Hey Matt, what's up?" (There's loud music in the background. Lots of chatter. I hear the sound of a door opening and the background noise fades.)

"Uh, hey Mello, think you could do me a favor?" (I never ask for favors unless something screws up. This sucks. I love my job but I don't like asking for help. Usually I can deal with shit myself.)

"Uhh..." (thoughtful pause) "Yeah, I can spare an hour or two. Fire away; I'm guessing you've got a little problem?" (He pretends to sound like he's inconvenienced, but I know him too well. He _loves_ this stuff. Give him an excuse to shoot things and play detective and he's _all_ over it. He just likes to sound aloof.)

"I've got a Devalpa on my ass and two jerk-offs in my bathroom, and it really wants to get to 'em. I've got no clue how to kill it, but technically I just stole its newest toy and it's definitely not too pleased with me. So I'd guess that qualifies as a problem." (Huff. Sigh. Bang head off desk. Punch window frame then immediately regret it.)

"Well, You'll have to tell me later what exactly a Devalpa is, but if it's my help you need my help I can easily bring enough guns to arm everyone. Want me to keep a lookout while you look stuff up?" (RELIEF. YES MELLO. YOU ARE MY SAVIOR.)

"Yes! Yes that would be great. Thank you so much." (Sigh of relief. No idea why I'm so relieved, but it will be much better with someone else here to keep me from wringing Julian's neck for getting me into this. If he'd have had a little more common sense, I could have just killed the big badie and been on my way. But noooo. Too easy.)

I hear Mello's car start up—the Ginetta I saw him in earlier—and the motor barely hums as he puts it in drive.

"I'll run home and get some supplies, and I'll be over in a few."

He hangs up, and I'm left with dial tone. (Why does everyone keep hanging up on me today?)

Okay. I'll check on Chris and Julian, while the computer is starting up.

But before I do that, I think I'll take a leak in that potted plant in the corner.

* * *

They're fine. Chris explained to Julian who I am and what the Devalpa is, saving me the great trouble of dumbing down everything to his level, and now he's thanking his luck that I was there to save his ass.

I can't wait till Mello gets here. Somehow when Mello's around, everything seems under control.

That's another cool thing about Mello. He practically oozes confidence. Not that I'm unconfident or anything, but generally, I like to take it easy. I'm a sloucher, I chew on my pens, and when I question people, I like to do it with an air of casual relaxation. I don't really do loud or stressful. Mello—he's a whole 'nother story. He's more of the "I'm in control, and I know what I'm doing" type. He's not really a _jerk_ about it—unless he gets too much caffeine—but usually he's just the active, strategic type. I've heard that in his job, he doesn't just profile; he can tell enough about the criminals to tell the police exactly where to go to catch them, and when. Like I've said before, _damn_ smart. And whatever _else_ it is that he does…well, I'm sure he's the same way there too.

I'm hoping that whenever I find out what kills this ghoul, he'll help me formulate a good plan.

Anyway, Google search time. Time to take notes. Wow, this journal is actually coming in handy more than I thought it would. That's disappointing.

Devalpa Facts:

-If you refuse to work for them, they kill you. So Julian is pretty fucked unless I solve this.

-Apparently there is a Devalpa in "Sinbad"

-According to the oh so reliable sources of the World Wide Web, it was killed by either having its brains bashed out or beheading.

-Actually I'm getting more things that say brain-bashing works best, so I think I'll go with that. Well, this will be _pleasant_. And _so_ easy to clean up. (Ugh.)

-One thing is always the same: to get rid of the Devalpa, you have to get it drunk. How on _earth_ am I going to pull this off? I don't even have any wine. Which, apparently, is preferred. Great.

Time to call Mello again. He's bound to have some wine. Hopefully nothing too expensive to waste on a leech like this one.

Where is that damn Devalpa anyway? Why isn't it breaking down my door by now? Mello had better get here soon. The suspense is killing me. There's no way I can do this by myself and protect Julian and Chris.

Hurry up, Mello. And bring some wine.


	3. Saved by Chance

**Mail Jeevas, P.I.**

**3**

I called Mello, and he said he'd bring wine. I wish he'd get here already, it sucks waiting around to be attacked. Can Devalpas even attack? I never really saw anything to indicate that, but they do have snake tentacles that come out of their bellies. Hopefully not poisonous snakes. That would really be the icing on the cake, seeing as I broke my chainsaw last month. (It's a long story. Involving a shape-shifter and a merry-go-round. Seriously, don't ask. I'll just leave it with, well, I'm now banned from the state fairgrounds, forever. And I didn't even kill the thing! Waste of time, and a perfectly good chainsaw.) Anyway, I don't think Devalpas are very social creatures either, which is definitely good, cause it means there won't be a colony of them nearby or anything, so I won't be dealing with any of its creepy friends. Just me and Mello versus one ghoul. Easy.

Oh, car outside. Definitely Hummer. It seems he's decided to break out the big guns.

* * *

Talk about _BIG_ GUNS! Have I mentioned lately that Mello's _insane_? Good golly jebus, he said he was bringing some guns and some wine. And now he shows up with TWENTY guns, a bag of C4 explosives-"just in case we have to blow it up," he says- and for wine, he brought a bottle of FIVE HUNDRED DOLLAR WINE. FROM THE VATICAN. KISSED BY THE POPE. Not really, but it might as well be, for how utterly priceless and irreplaceable it is. Leave it to Mello, really. He's _not_ going to be happy if that gets wasted.

I just hope it does its job and gets the _Devalpa_ wasted.

We've been waiting for about fifteen minutes, give or take. Still no sign of the Devalpa. We're both outside right now; Mello's guarding the bathroom window, and I'm guarding the front door. (Okay, not really _guarding_. I'm sort of hiding. Out of sight anyway. It doesn't matter where I am as long as I can still shoot it. I'd rather be a sniper than a man on the front lines.) (That's basically matt speak for I'M TERRIFIED.) I know we can take this thing, and under normal circumstances I'd be totally fine and cool and shit, but for some reason I've been stressed a bit lately. I wonder why?

OH YEAH. It's because I've got a dumbass brunette trying to tell me I'm CRAZY. If I go to the nuthouse, Mello'd better feed my cat. But I'll be damned if they let my business go under and my car get impounded just cause they don't like my lifestyle. Fuck that.

A few minutes ago Mello shot a runaway poodle that peed on his shoe, because it "surprised him and he thought it might be the Devalpa." He gave a Luger to Chris (eight years old!) with a pat on the head and a "Have fun." Sometimes I wish I could be that audacious. It would probably be a whole lot of fun to not give a shit about anything all the time, but unfortunately for me, I have a conscience occasionally. I don't give many fucks, but when I do, I usually have to play some game to get my mind off things. (PSP is my favorite handheld, and I tend to like things like Alien Syndrome, or Zombie Crisis. When I was little I loved the classics to death, but I've played them so many times over by now I can finish them all in a day. I like to think I'm a bit of a game genius, if I say so myself.) But playing a game would give away my location by the music.

Of course, I do have to interact with this thing somehow to get it drunk. FML.

Time to take a deep, preferably smoky and cancerous breath, and find this thing. I'm sick of waiting for it to find me.

Got my cigs. Goggles on, Safety off. Gun in one hand, wine in the other.

Devalpa, here I come.

* * *

Ahaha. Ha. Haha.

What a day. Not so unusual for someone like me I guess, but I like to think normal is relative.

So I went and got Mello. We decided to scout out the area on foot—together, of course, we don't want to end up like the people in movies who split up—and I was to walk in front since I know the area better. Like I've said before, neither my work nor my house is in a particularly good part of town. I take what I can afford. My office is only a couple blocks down from my apartment, and there are lots of shady corners and alleys that traverse the area. The trick to this was not running into other _humans_ in these back alleys where the Devalpa was most likely lurking in wait, because some of these humans could be way nastier than any demon or ghostie. On the upside, at least we didn't look too out of place running about with guns in our hands, though we did scare a few old ladies. The only person we stopped to talk to was my hobo friend, headed to the go-mart with a bundle of cash in his hand and coins jingling in his pockets. (Seriously? How does everyone have buttloads of money, except for me?) Anyway, he hadn't seen anything, so we went on our way. He knew better than to as me for a dollar.

We made our way around the first block and found nothing. We ducked through little backstreets and tried not to step on too much broken glass, and finally we made it full circle around to the back of my office—there's a little muddy spot there with a bush that the bathroom window looks out on. It's where I park my car. Usually there's a few _human_ hobos that like to hang out back there, with it being sheltered by my building and mostly unseen. I don't mind them—for all I know, one day Mello will decide not to share his money anymore, and then I'll be a hobo too. It's good to have friends of all sorts anyways, and I don't judge.

There's that one that I like. His name is Paul, I think. He tells me some of the _nuttiest_ stories, things so weird even _I _have a hard time believing them. He used to work for NASA, actually, until they laid him off. Now he's just the local wine-o.

I should have guessed. I really should have guessed.

We rounded the corner towards the back window to check on Chris and Julian, and there we find ourselves face to face with Paul and the _Devalpa_, both red faced and giggling like schoolgirls. Now I knew Devalpas have a weak spot for resisting a drink, but no one mentioned that they seriously _can't_ _resist_ it. There had to be, oh, I don't know, FIFTEEN empty bottles around them? In its drunken stupor its tentacles had shown their snaky faces, but that was okay, because that damn demon was too drunk to do anything but flop around like a fish, even after it saw me.

Mello was laughing so hard he had to lean against the brick wall to keep himself upright, and I must admit that it was probably the _strangest_ encounter I have ever had with anything immortal. But in the moment, I couldn't laugh too much.

There was still that part where I had to bash its brains out, and since I hadn't actually expected to find it, I hadn't planned that far. I won't go into gory details, but I had to improvise. With empty wine bottles.

Ugh.

I burnt the body, and once Paul sobered up I made sure he knew that under any other circumstance it is not a good thing to get monsters drunk, cause most of them are angry drunks. He took it well. Paul is one of the few people who finds what I do to be truly noble—me, putting my safety on the line for others, even when no one else believes in my "crusade." (The first time he told me that, I teared up behind my goggles a little. It was unexpected from an ex-scientist. I was stunned.) Julian left my office with a much-changed outlook, if his paranoia was anything to tell by. He was scared to death of Paul, and he nearly screamed when he tripped over my outside hose. Thought it was a snake. Maybe now he'll be more careful and not assault any more monsters. Mello let Chris keep the gun, and told him to look out for his brother. Julian didn't look too pleased, but everyone else got a good smirk out of it. I don't blame him for it—Mello got his first gun when he was nine, and he made good use of it.

Mello left about a half hour ago, and I guess he dropped the others back off at their place. I'm alone here now, and even though I don't work the usual hours, I think I'm done for today. My legs hurt from all that walking, and I think I hurt my wrist with all that smashing. Time to go home and enjoy some nice therapeutic cat petting, take my goggles off, and play something good. And get a good relaxing smoke.

Yes Ramona, I'm a smoker. Gonna over-analyze that too? Say I'm self-destructive or some crap? I guess I'll find out tomorrow. Tomorrow…when you read all this. I forgot that I have another session in the morning. Crap. I'm really in for it now; I think this will be the most bat shit insane story I've told her yet.

DAMN YOU WEEKLY APPOINTMENTS.

Facedesk. Groan.

Tomorrow's gonna be a long day.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for such a short chapter! ;_; I feel like I totally let you all down with this weird ending to this Devalpa bit. BUT DON'T WORRY! I HAVE PLENTY MORE IDEAS COMING! I won't say how, but I'll be bringing in another main DN character soon. And some more creepy creatures. ;D Review please! Reviews help Matt pay for gas money!


	4. Monsters in the Morning

**Matt, P.I.**

**4**

* * *

It's way too early. Way, way to freaking early. I think she does this on purpose to make me nuts before I even get to her meetings. It's not even like I'm a priority patient or anything, but she always schedules _me_ first thing in the morning. An eight o'clock appointment means I have to get up at seven. Getting up at seven means that I only get five hours of sleep—no way I'm forsaking my nightly gaming for this—and I'm dead tired. There is no reason for this. Hopefully she's not _too_ eager to see me. That would probably be the definition of icky.

Shudder. I'm not awake enough to deal with this. Need coffee.

Actually, fuck coffee. I don't even like coffee. I like Monster—yeah, I know, the irony, right? Energy drinks, here I come. Maybe if I drink enough, I'll have to get my stomach pumped and then have a legit excuse to not go to therapy. Sounds more pleasant than being drilled about my home life anyway. She likes to do that, as if she thinks that all my "delusions" are caused by the fact that my dad's in jail for killing my mom. He didn't kill her. That's not a delusion. I think I know better what I saw than she does, seeing as, oh, I don't know, I was THERE. Plus, there isn't even a way that my dad could have killed her; cause of death should have been enough to tell that.

I don't even want to _think_ about that. Ramona can go screw herself if she thinks I'll ever _talk_ to her about that. Because NEVER do I want to go back to that day again. I went back once, for Mello only. And even then, I was drunk…

Maybe if I self-spiked this Monster, I could sit through this appointment without doing anything _actually_ crazy. Yeah, cause going to therapy drunk would _totally_ solve all my problems.

Well, it's seven thirty. I guess I'd better get going.

* * *

Whelp, I'm fucked.

Christ, why is it that I never think before I do things? I should probably blame all of this on lack of sleep and an overload of caffeine and stress, but something tells me that wouldn't help me—the next time I see Ramona she'll probably be flanked by a couple guys in white coats with handcuffs and nametags reading Stephan and Fredrico. I shouldn't have to explain any of this to Ramona, but now that this will probably, most definitely be read by multiple other shrinks who's only purpose is to lock up misunderstood guys like me, so I should probably explain for their sake.

One, I'm not crazy, just really fucking stupid in the mornings. I've said before that I'm pretty easygoing, and that's generally true—except in the hours before ten thirty in the morning. When I'm not awake yet, I can be damn grouchy, and if you say the wrong thing I'm likely to either chew you a new one or punch you in the face. Same goes for if I haven't slept in a few days, but I think that's normal.

Anyway, I'd been in her office for about ten minutes, half asleep on that blasted couch but jittery from the two and a half Monsters I drank, and she'd just finished reading these first few entries in this thing. Then she sat there for a good 'nother ten minutes scribbling things down on one of those legal size yellow notepads with this girly flowered pen—and I mean she took down _two_ _pages_ of notes about what I'd written. This was not part of our original agreement—originally, this was ONLY for me, like I wrote on the first page, "to help me get back in touch with the real world." There was no mention that she'd take notes on my life. She told me she was just going to _read_ it.

I was pissed. I have to pay for this time, and it's not cheap. If therapy hadn't been court ordered for me after that awful trial they put me on, I wouldn't even be here. It doesn't matter to the court that I'm flat broke. (And I am _not_ some freakazoid fetishist either, no matter what they think! I don't dig up graves for no reason—just when there might be a vampire inside! And there wasn't, by the way. It was just a false alarm. But if there had been, I totally could have taken it.) But anyway, she'd wasted about twenty or more minutes—that's about thirty or forty dollars, that I don't have, by the way—and she didn't seem like she was ever going to look up from her notebook. So I did the only logical thing that my hyped-up, pissed off brain could think of.

I put my goggles on, stood up, told her she was the most worthless human being on the planet, and a damn good for nothing mind molester, took my notebook back, then stole hers.

Then ran out the door as fast as I possibly could, got in my car and drove so fast I got a speeding ticket, stopped at the seven-eleven for a nice burrito, then came home and collapsed on the living room floor for about two hours of needed sleep. (I was aiming for the couch when I crashed, but I missed. Life is full of disappointments, I roll with them.)

Well, now I'm awake, and though I feel a bit caffeine-hungover, I CANNOT BELIEVE I DID THAT. FUCKING JESUS AM I REALLY GOING INSANE. OH MY GOD WHAT IF THEY WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG?

Breathe, Matt. Breathe. Light a smoke.

Easygoing. I'm taking it easy. I am CALM. I AM DOWN RIGHT CHILLED.

AHAHA RIGHT I AM SO NOT OKAY I'M SO SCREWED MY LIFE IS OVER

ASDFGHJKL;

YES I'M A NERD AND JUST WROTE THAT DOWN.

Urgh. I feel sick. I don't want to go to a psych ward. Do you have any idea how many really unhappy ghosts live in those places? That's all I need now, is to be stuck with the job of purifying a place like _that_ of angry spirits. I'd be likely to get _possessed_.

I guess I'll tape in the pages that Ramona wrote about me. I have nothing really good to do with them other than reread them a bunch of times until I throw up, so putting them in here is a better solution.

Now where'd I put my tape…Oh yeah, it's at my office. I guess duck tape will have to do.

* * *

6/18

Mail had seemed to be doing better, at our last meeting. He agreed to try out my suggestion of keeping a diary of his daily life. I had hoped that would help fix his delusions, but obviously I was wrong. His writings in his journal, though well detailed and told with a very unique voice, have proven deeply disturbing to me. It seems that his problems are more deeply set than I could have anticipated. Obviously, nothing more could be expected of a young man who witnessed such atrocities within his own family at such a young age. He has put himself into the deepest kind of denial, an utter rejection of everything around him. Most troubling is his relationship with a man he only refers to as "Mello." This is obviously a fake name, whether Mail realizes this or not, and the more I read about this "Mello," the more it is obvious that Mail is in great danger. I fear some type of gang is involved, a rather strong one, perhaps even the Mafia. If Mail continues on in the manner he is now, he may easily come to a horrible end like his mother—involved with the wrong people—and I fear this may be a subconscious motivation on his part. He seems to have definite self-destructive patterns, which he actually mentions on several occasions in his writings, though in a sarcastic manner. These patterns when combined with his delusions may prove to be a serious hazard to his life. Within the week since I had last seen him, Mail went from being open to treatment to running around downtown at night with a mobster, talking to bums—and he even mentions _killing_ someone. While I'm sure that _that_ is just a figment of his imagination, it does not change the reality that if I do not help this man soon, he's likely to be far beyond help. Medication and increased sessions, I believe, would do him a great help-

* * *

UGH.

She acts like she knows everything about me. Just cause she read the file about my dad the police sent her, now she thinks she can blame everything on my parents—who were actually quite lovely, by the way—and now she decides to bring _Mello_ into this? "Like his mother, involved with the wrong people." What the fuck is that even supposed to mean? Like my father was the "wrong type of person?" He never did fucking anything but be a great father!

And Mello is _not_ a mobster. I don't know what it is that he's doing outside of work, but he's way too smart do get involved with that crap. Probably. But it doesn't matter, he's never done anything but help me out, and he's my best fucking friend! I'm not in danger of anything except getting shoved in a psych ward! Medications and increased sessions my ass, there's no fucking way. When she starts paying, maybe, but at this rate I'm likely to make _Mello _go broke from how much money I've borrowed.

I hope she gets eaten by a sewer monster. That would be a nice, slimy, shit filled death for her.

Why can't she just be nice? Be friendly or something, ask me what my opinion is, let me _introduce_ Mello to her so she can see how harmless he is.

Pffffffft Mello, harmless. Sometimes I make myself laugh. She'd take one look at him, covered in skintight leather, all cocky and slutty and confident and she'd faint. He's not exactly a person for the meek of heart. Now, Ramona's not exactly meek…but she is pretty apt to toe the line. Mello's the guy who'd take one look at the line, laugh at it, and blow it up.

He's not a _pyro_…fire's just his favorite color.

Anyway, I should probably be calling him, seeing as how I may or may not be locked up by tomorrow morning if she decides to send the cops after me. He can't really do anything to stop that, but it would be nice if he knew where I went before hand. Wouldn't want him thinking I got abducted by aliens or anything. Plus I'd feel awful if anything happened to Skully. I think I've calmed down enough to think this through logically, and the first logical thing is to bother the fuck out of the only person who'll talk to me without a court order. Urgh, stupid shrink. Makes me really wish I could go back to the days when everything was so much simpler. Like about four weeks ago, before that freaking trial.

At least she stopped saying how dependent I am on Mello. Maybe she just hadn't gotten to that part yet. Cause I'm totally independent. It's her damn fault I've taken so much of his money lately.

Calling Mello.

Mello answer the phone. I know you're there.

Mello, there is no way I can explain this in a message…pick up…

YES JESUS HE ANSWERED. Oh god, how do I explain this. That I went batty? Got myself in a pickle? Yarrrg. He's laughing. This is totally not funny. MELLO I'M LOSING IT HERE AND YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY. I guess it is a bit funny…ha, haha, hahaha oh god why do I hear footsteps in the hall, and why do they sound like HIGH HEELS, those high heels with little bows on them, Mello, stop laughing

RAMONA IS OUTSIDE MY APARTMENT WHAT DO I DO JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

And she's calling my name and I hope there's no cops, I'm really not good with cops, cops are the reason my dad's FUCKING IN JAIL and what do I do ohno Mello I have to go, don't forget me while I'm gone and feed my cat and make sure my car stays shiny and don't let it get hailed on or anything NO I'M NOT JOKING MELLO I'M SERIOUS and I'm hanging up now.

Goggles time goggles time goggles time

Breathe Matt, answer the door. Smile. Don't look crazy and don't do anything stupid. Her job is to help you. Help me.

Put me on drugs and take me off someplace terrible where I—

No. Just open the door. Open the door and whatever happens, happens. I CAN DO THIS.

Hello, Ramona.


	5. First Strike

**Matt, P.I.**

**5**

Holy _crap_, that was a close one. I can't believe I got out of that.

Well, okay, I'm not out forever, but let's just say I won't be locked up _this_ week.

Basically what happened was a huge stroke of luck. Maybe she was afraid that if she made me mad that I'd bash out _her_ brains with a wine bottle or something, but I don't even care why. I'm FREE! For now, anyway, but that's good enough for this moment. I can relax in this moment and collapse on my nice cozy bed and stare at the ceiling while smoking a nice cigarette and play some Dead Rising or something. It doesn't matter what I play. It just matters that I get to play it in my own house, when I want to, without creepy guards watching my every move. And at this point, that's the best thing I can ask for.

So, since I keep going on about it, here's how it happened. I opened the door and stuttered my way to an apology of sorts, which she brushed aside. She was alone—and that itself was a miracle—and I let her come inside. It was more of a "I'm coming inside and we're talking this over, or I _will_ call the cops on you" but that's not important. So she invaded the fuck out of my personal space, but I didn't really have a choice but to let her sit on the couch. I sat on the arm of the couch, as far away from her as I could get. It was one of the most awkward conversations of my life, with lots of veiled threats from her and snarky comebacks from me, but somehow I managed not to punch her, and she actually laughed when she found out that all I'd done with her notes was tape them into my notebook. She thought it was FUNNY. FUNNY THAT SHE ACTUALLY DROVE ME INSANE ENOUGH TO TURN INTO SOME TYPE OF VISCIOUS THIEVING PSYCHO. Christ, why is SHE the shrink and I the patient? Shouldn't this be reversed, with how utterly NUTS this lady is?

But that's totally beside the point. The point is, she's decided to give me "three strikes." Yup, the classic three tries then you're out thing. She actually apologized for her remark in the notes about my dad being the "wrong sort of person"—although that was after me chewing her a new one and chucking a Gameboy at her—and as her apology, she says she won't count the Devalpa thing against me. I won't even go into how fucked it is that she thinks she could hold the damn TRUTH against me, fucking cunt, but I guess I can deal with that for now if it means my own freedom. Stealing her notebook was my first strike.

Hey, maybe I'll go another _two_ weeks without being hauled away? You never know. It's not too often I get a real case usually, so I'm guessing that as long as I'm getting dud cases and I write down how they aren't real, she won't count it against me. Of course, it would be _just_ my luck if everything falls apart after this, but there's no harm in hoping. As long as my life stays simple and I don't lose it again, I should be okay for a little while. Maybe I'm luckier than I think I am.

I mean, there was another stroke of luck when Mello showed up. Not so much luck _that_ he showed up, but when he showed up. Being Mello, of course, he thought he could somehow fix all my problems by busting my door down and waving a gun around—this of course being AFTER he stopped laughing his ass off at my panic attack—but fortunately, it took him long enough to stop cracking up that he arrived _after_ Ramona left. Now _that_ would have been tough to explain. _"No, Ramona, I promise he's really not a mobster, he just has unlimited money and a gun on him at all times…"_

Then since Mello was there, I let him eat lunch with me again, this time _my_ treat—though all I had was cheese balls, bologna, and chocolate milk—and I explained everything that happened. I had to wait for another five minutes straight of him laughing his ass off when I got to the part where I called Ramona a "mind molester" but when I was done we both agreed that it was one _hell_ of a close call. Mello was obviously more glad that I was okay than he let on, because he stayed for lunch. I was surprised. I figured he'd take a look at what I had to eat, laugh at me, then take me out for Italian or something. The fact that he ate my food and let me have a good time with him _without_ indebting myself just goes to show, he was glad that I was still there. Glad that I was still around to share my shitty food with him.

See, he pretends to be all bad, but even Mello has a few soft spots. Friends, I think, are his biggest weakness from what I've seen. Before me, he only ever had one other true friend—a man who went only by "L"—but…well, Mello never told me how, but somehow, L died. From what he's told me, and some things he _hasn't_ told me, I have my own suspicions as to how L died, but that's not important. What is important, is that when L died, he went crazy—he was only fourteen, and he was the closest thing Mello ever had to a father. Something tells me that if anything ever happened to _me_, who knows what Mello would do.

Plus there's also that little thing Mello said to me while we were eating. "Matt, you're the only motherfucker in this town that I don't hate. Please don't make me shoot your shrink. Cause I really might if she tries to lock you up."

He said it jokingly, but jokes like that are only so funny when there's really a gun shoved down that person's pants.

Oh fuck. I probably shouldn't write things like that. IT WAS A JOKE RAMONA I SWEAR. HE'S NOT GONNA KILL YOU, SO FUCKING RELAX.

Urg, this whole ordeal this morning has made me extremely late for work. I hope no one tried to stop by with anything urgent. It's already two in the afternoon…I should probably at least go by and check the messages. Maybe stay till five. It's a good thing I work for myself, otherwise I'd be fired by now.

RAMONA, YOU ARE THE REASON I CAN'T HAVE A NORMAL JOB.

Hmm. I should stop writing now. I never thought I'd get into writing like this, but it's kindof interesting. Almost like being in a movie or something, where my life is all exciting. Maybe someday these notes will be found by a team of scientists after I'm long dead when the earth is overrun by all the offspring of the baddies I couldn't kill and the entire earth's fate would rest on my descriptions of how to kill things. And then Ramona's great granddaughter would turn out to be one of those scientists, and she'd swear to avenge all the trouble her grandmother caused me, so she'd go on a crusade to kill all the monsters she could. Then she'd bring me back as a ZOMBIE—

Oh wait, what the fuck did I just write.

Maybe I am crazy. No way would I ever want to be relied upon to SAVE THE WORLD. I can't even save my own ass half the time.

OKAY. Shut notebook. Go to work, Matt. Whoooo, work time! (Note sarcasm. I want to sleep. As if I wasn't tired enough this morning, now I'm exhausted. Fuck you, stress.)

I hope my car has gas. Oh well, I think I have an extra fifty cents or so around here. That should get me…about a sixth of a gallon. Meh. It's enough to get me the few blocks to work and back.

* * *

Wow. Just really, wow. My life cannot stay boring this week. Right when I need it to, it's like, "Nope! Here, have some chaos!"

So I went to work. I went in the back way, so instead of driving around front and then parking my car around back, I went straight to the back and parked, then walked around front. Not expecting anything abnormal to happen today—I mean really, I JUST did a case YESTERDAY. Two in a week is like, impossible. I wasn't even looking where I was going, I was fishing my keys out of my pocket, then all of a sudden I trip over something and fall face first into the front door. After cussing a bunch, I looked down to see what had tripped me, you know, expecting like maybe one of Paul's discarded wine bottles or maybe a stray dog, but NO. It just _couldn't_ be something normal and mundane that won't get me in trouble. It just _had_ to be a body.

Okay, not a _dead_ body, but an unconscious body. One that was bleeding from tons of teeth and bite and scratch marks everywhere. Then I notice that my front door has blood all over it.

Well, this will be _great_ for business.

I hauled the kid inside—more of a teenager than a kid really, but he had on duckie pajamas—and put him in the bathroom on the floor so the blood wouldn't stain anything. Then I went back out into the office, collapsed onto my swivel chair, laughed until I started crying a little because my life is coming apart at the seams today, bashed my head off the desk, and finally gathered up the courage to go in there and do something. (You'd think that would have been my first instinct, to help the bleeding guy, but apparently I'm a little distractible today.) I put some cold water on him and he woke up, enough to sit up and groan. His voice is a little girly, but I guess maybe he hasn't got his hormones yet. But he did tell me that he was eighteen…

Anyway, I asked him for his name, and he told me it's Nate, but to call him Near. (Why do I always end up with the people with fake names? _I _use a fake name, but my name is _Mail_. That's understandable, right?) He's albino, which freaks me out a little—he looks like a ghost or something! Or maybe a sheep, he does have really fluffy hair. I'll go with that, I'm not afraid of sheep. He's not even from this town apparently, he's some rich-bitch private school kid here this week because—get this—he wanted to check out our town's _toy_ _store_. So he was staying with distant relatives that don't even like him, just to look at toys. What the hell? Is this kid _mental_?

Anyway, It's his story that drives me crazy. Not REALLY crazy, you know what I mean. (He's okay by the way. I have plenty of band aids. I hurt myself all the time tripping over game cords, so I have a pretty decent stash of first aid. And yes, you heard me right. Game cords, in my office. What can I say? I get bored sometimes.) But he says he knows exactly what he saw. It's weird how calm he is about the whole thing, like he can't even feel pain or something, (and Christ HOW can he say he saw what he did and be CALM) but his account is very specific. No guesses this time. Whereas most people would have made _wild_ guesses—and most people would have said either "rabid dog" or "werewolf,"—he didn't make any guesses at all. He told me his story and asked me what I thought.

What I _thought_, was "WHAT THE FUCK. IF THERE IS A GOD HE HAS GOT TO BE TRYING TO KILL ME. THIS CANNOT BE FUCKING HAPPENING TO ME, TODAY OF ALL THE FUCKING DAYS."

What I _said _was "Well…It looks to me like we've got a _chupacabra_ loose in the city."

* * *

A/N: I am sooo sorry for the delay with this chapter. I've been really busy. I tried to make this chapter a little longer to make up for it, but I'm afraid it's not as funny... D: Anyways, I really hope you liked it! I snickered when I got the idea cause...well, chupacabra's like livestock...and Near's a sheep...xD Anyway, please review!


	6. Dicey Situations

**Matt, P.I.**

**6**

A Chupacabra, _really_. God hates me. I already knew quite a bit about these things, but I did some more research just in case anything new had been discovered. I don't expect Ramona to know anything about Chupacabras, so here's some info.

CHUPACABRA FACTS:

-The Chupacabra is in a way a sort of South American bigfoot-like legend. Some say it walks on two legs, while others say it looks a bit like a dog.

-In almost all cases it has some type of spikes or quills down its back.

-They are infamous for eating livestock, mostly goats—their name translates to "goat sucker"—but also sheep and other similar animals. Most say they drink the blood of their prey.

-Some believe them to be an alien-dinosaur hybrid, but even _I_ have a hard time believing that one…

-They are also described as a dog-like cryptid with scales, a ridge of spikes down their backs, and long tongues. There are a few supposed corpses that fit this description, and though the pictures look a lot like dogs, their feet are distinctly different.

-Though they originated in South America, they appear to have spread north-ward, and there have been cases in America—as far north as Maine. They have also been reportedly sighted in Russia and the Philippines.

Well, now it seems there's one in _my_ town. Why it would come to a city is beyond me; the only things to eat here are pigeons and cats. And people. Which, it seems, this Chupacabra has taken a liking to. And this is _definitely_ a Chupacabra, because when Near described it to me, I knew. All he had to say was "scaly legs, spiny fur" and it was set. We've got a goat sucker on our hands, with no goats for it to suck. (I've always had my own theory about the "goat sucker." I've never heard it suggested by anyone else, but I like it. Maybe I'll get to test it out on this case…but if I'm right, then Near is pretty screwed. See, I've always thought that it sounded like a simple case of Vampirism—just _canine_ Vampirism. The sucking of blood and scaly skin have always drawn me to that conclusion. If humans can become vampires, why not dogs? With their canine teeth, it would be much more practical. It's not impossible for a normal vampire to have bitten a dog somewhere along the lines, and after that it could have spread like rabies.)

Anyway, this means there's lots of people in danger. Plus at this point, from what the brat's told me, he's been gone long enough that he's probably been reported as either runaway or kidnapped. So I'm either a kidnapper or harboring a runaway. That's great. Nothing good will happen if the court throws me in jail for this while I'm still being investigated for being a grave robbing freak.

The best thing here is, guess what? I CAN SHOOT THIS MOTHERFUCKER AND IT WILL DIE. No weird ass spells, no _wine_, and no more research. Just me, a gun, and a lot of searching. But that's okay, for once, because Near is rich, and he's promised to recompense me for my gas money, _and_ pay me FIVE HUNDERED BUCKS for this thing to die. Now _that_ will pay at least one bill.

Oh whoa, what's this? Mello's outside? Why is he outside? I thought he had to work or something. I guess I'd better answer the door. Maybe he saw something…?

Psh, nevermind. He opened the door for himself. And now there's a newspaper slammed own on my desk. Slow down, Mello, geez, talk slower. Now what was that?

* * *

Okay, well it seems Mells did have some pointers. Cool.

The newspaper was open to an article about a traveling petting zoo. While I was reading it, Mello was explaining to me all about how I would _love_ this one, because "Matt, you're _never_ going to believe this! I know what this one is, you've got another case! It's a _Chupacabra_!" Apparently there had been a spree of deaths among the livestock at the petting zoo—four goats and two sheep were dead, drained of blood. Mello was so proud of himself for knowing what had caused it that he had come here straight away after seeing the headline, and I hated to bust his bubble, but I had to. So I did it with as much tact as I could—"Yeah, you're right! It is a Chupacabra, and I was actually about to go out and look for it. You can come with if you want…Near here showed up first and tipped me off about it."

His eyes lit up with the strangest glee when I said he was right, but when I said someone got there first, he looked pissed. He hates to be shown up by anyone, even if that person is injured. Although it seems I was right—Mello can't stand the brat. Or, as Mello calls him, "That pathetic twit." It's really funny to watch the two of them go at it though; I can almost remember exactly how it went after it went after that. Mello noticed Near sitting on the floor and laughed snarkily. Near gave him a deadpan stare. Mello said, "Who the fuck are you, duckie boy?" and Near replied with, "I might ask the same of you. And why, may I ask, do you dress like a girl?"

Mello grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up to eye level, giving him one of his famous crazy-eyed stares. For the first time ever, I saw someone be completely unfazed by that—Near just stared back, blankly, though his lips had the faintest hint of smirk on them. I had to intervene here—Near was already hurt, and since he was pretty tiny for his age, Mello was actually holding him off the floor by about six inches. Luckily, it's easy to distract Mello if you know how—just offer him chocolate or something shiny. (Okay, it's not entirely that simple, but it worked for me.) I have a coffee maker on my desk, and the only thing I ever brew in it is Mocha, specifically for times like this. I just poured a cup, and when Mello smelled it, he dropped Near completely and snatched it away from me, drinking it all in one gulp, while looking straight at me over the top of the cup. He knew I'd done it on purpose. I know him well enough to know that the look he gave me, however menacing, was actually a look of thanks. I'd made him back down without making him surrender to anyone. If I'd jumped in and said "Dude, put him down," it never would have worked. That's just how Mello is.

Near broke in with a cool, unfazed but obviously not pleased voice. "Are we going to kill this thing or not? Because I'd really rather not wait around to be _attacked_ again."

Flinch. No need to be so condescending there, kid. Don't piss of the people trying to help you. Mello glared at me, a look of "You're really going to take this from a _customer_?"

Then, Mello pulled one of his classic Mello moves, pulled his gun out of his pants and admired it haughtily. I forget exactly what he replied with, but it was something else snarky, and I began to regret giving him coffee…Near, meanwhile, decided it was beneath him to bother arguing with someone waving weapons around, and began making long chains out of my paperclips. What the hell. I _use_ those paperclips. So I took them from him, and he _glared_ at me. After I just saved his ass! God, I said before he was spoiled, but _geez_.

Mello got fed up, grabbed us both and shoved us out the front door. He was a lot harsher about it to Near, but I was okay with that this time. Payback for that stupid glare. After putting his gun back down his pants—don't ask, that's just where he keeps it—he took up his well-practiced role as "boss." Hands on hips and tapping his boot, he says, "Both of you, get your asses in my Hummer. We're going to do this so this can be over with, and I don't have to look at _you_ ever again,"—that part was to Near—"And if you touch my fuzzy dice, I will fucking kill you."

So that's where I am currently sitting, in the passenger seat while Mello drives, Near in the backseat. And get this—we're going to the _fairgrounds_. This not only means one long, awkward car ride while Near makes snide comments about Mello's music (Judas Priest. Apparently, Near would rather listen to Jazz. Seriously? Who the fuck likes jazz?) but in case anyone forgot, I'm _banned_ from the fairgrounds for that thing I mentioned a day or two ago with the shape-shifter. So if I get caught there, with a gun, no less…I am soooo fucked.

Mello, please stop staring at me funny. I'm not writing because I _want_ to. I have to—cause even though Ramona will be pissed about this Chupacabra business, she'll be even more pissed if I stop writing.

Yes Near, I have a therapist. Stop eavesdropping on my conversation with Mello, thanks. No, I'm not telling you why! Ugh, brat. I wish I could get rid of the kid and just hunt this thing down on my own, or with just Mells, but I have to remember, FIVE HUNDRED BUCKS. Maybe more? WORTH IT.

Oh look, we're almost here. I can see tents and buildings. One of those colored things I see better be a port-a-john. What? Not my fault that the drive from my place in the downtown to the suburbs/almost countryside is about an hour. I'm sorry, Ramona, but if you don't want to know such personal things, then don't make me keep a private journal.

Ohhhh bumpy road now, not helping. Urg.

I hope the fairgrounds are open now; I'd hate to get dragged into breaking and entering. That would be hard to explain—"Sorry, officer, I couldn't wait until tonight. I just _had_ to see those cute little piggies!" Oh shit, speaking of officers, there's also a chance this place will be crawling with cops after those livestock deaths. This could be tricky. I hope Mello's thought this over…

Oh look, we're here.

Time to get out and do some sleuthing and find that critter.

Cross my fingers, and don't get caught!

* * *

A/N: So sorry for such a short chapter! And after a delay too! D: I feel awful about it, but I didn't want to give away too much this time. Also, just in case any of you were wondering why I chose Judas Priest as Mello's music- Their song "Breaking the Law" seemed to me like perfect Mello music. And yes, Mello has fuzzy dice. xD Anyway, please review! If you loved it or hated it, just let me know!


	7. BAM

Matt, P.I.

7

Oh lord, _why_ did I let Mello drag me to the fairgrounds. _Why_? Better question—why did I give Mello caffeine?

Oh, in case you're wondering, I'm currently hiding in the a very tight, uncomfortable plastic dinosaur, underneath one of the seats in it. Apparently, the petting zoo was a sideshow of a carnival passing through. But that doesn't matter. What matters is WHY THE FUCK AM I HIDING IN A PLASTIC DINOSAUR WHILE MELLO RIDES AROUND OUTSIDE ON A HORSE. I have no idea where Near is. I have no idea where the Chupacabra is. This was a terrible idea. And what the FUCK was I thinking when I gave Mello coffee?

Okay, just in case I end up shot because of this, Ramona, THIS is how I died. Er, will die. Something like that; I think I'll just try not to die. Yeah, living sounds good.

But anyway. We got here, and Mello handed out weapons. The place was shut down due to the animal deaths, but there were still guards here and there. Near didn't want a gun, so he took a flare gun instead—so one of us can save him if he gets in trouble—but Mello and I decided to go in packing. Two guns for him, plus extra ammo. And I'm pretty sure I saw him slip something that looked like an explosive device into his pocket when he thought I wasn't looking. I took my usual gun, the one he always loans me. I forget what kind it is, but it's nice and shoots pretty accurately. I don't really care what it is at this point; what I do care about is that I only have one bullet left. That does not sit well with me.

Especially with all this fucking CHAOS. WHY IS MY LIFE SO INSANE. UGH I SWEAR, MELLO, IF YOU GET ME KILLED…

Did I mention why I'm being hunted down by a posse of cops right now? Oh, I didn't? Well, I guess I should tell you then. You know, before I DIE.

Arrrgh. All we were doing was snooping around all stealthily and shit, looking at all the cute little animals and searching for paw prints, and I was petting this cute little goat, when BAM. Fucking out of nowhere, just suddenly CHUPACABRA. That fucker is HUGE. It's like, as big as a German shepherd, only with bigass teeth. And this freaky ridge of really stiff fur on its back like a hyena that _really_ does look like spikes. And it's all furry on top with these icky scaly legs, and THREE TOED FEET! No one said anything about three toes! What the hell! So it lunges at us, trying to get past us to Near—I guess he's tasty or something—and of course, Mello's shouting and screaming obscenities and I'm over there having a meltdown because WHY JESUS IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME, RIGHT NOW WHEN I NEED PEACE, and then we both start shooting but it doesn't even faze the damned thing, so Mello grabs my hand and I grab Near and we all start running as fast as we can. I figured we'd do the smart thing and high-tail it back to the car for either an escape or more ammo, but then Mello gets this idea in his head, grabs my arm and yanks me into this tent we were running past. A pony ride tent. PONIES. So of course, I was like, "Mello, what the fuck are you doing?" But he didn't answer—instead, he STOLE A FUCKING HORSE. Or maybe it's just a large pony. Either way, he gets on it, GRABS ME, pulls ME on the fucking horse behind him, scares the thing half to death until it starts running, and then SETS OUT AFTER THE CHUPACABRA, CHASING IT ON A FUCKING PONY, SHOOTING AT IT WITH BOTH GUNS AT ONCE AND SCREAMING "DIE YOU MOTHERFUCKER DIE." He wasn't even steering, nope, he left that part up to me. So I was wrapped around Mello's waist, clinging to the reins with one hand and trying to shoot with the other.

And this, kids, is why the only caffeine Mello should EVER have, should only EVER be contained in chocolate.

I mean, in better circumstances it could have been fun. Me and Mello on a pony. It wasn't so bad having to reach around him—I discovered today that Mello's hair is very soft when it smacks against your face, and it smells like Axe. Not a bad smell.

You know, after I got past the smell of the HORSE.

Anyway, that was all fine and well, until we turned a corner. A very abrupt corner that I did not see coming, and which consequently caused me to _fall_ _off_ the horse. That's when I looked back to find Near, and instead found that the park guards were chasing us, and that they had called the police, and the POLICE were chasing us too. Fun, fun. Everything after that was a shitfuck of me running around like my ass was on fire with bullets whizzing past my ears, Mello cackling in the distance while the Chupacabra ripped apart tents, and the sound of gunfire. I didn't even get the time to think "goggles time." Finally I lost them and dove in here. So here I am. One bullet left and utterly fucked. But I still have to move soon—the rides will be the first place they'll look for me.

Goddamn it, I _still_ have to pee. Why is it that my bladder has to wait until the most inconvenient moments before telling me it's full?

Okay Matt. You can do this. You have to help Mello, and you have to _find_ Near. For the sake of my own dignity, I will not let the last time I pee be when I'm _shot_.

There you go, Matt, positive thinking.

Oh god, I'm talking in third person. Maybe I should just let them shoot me.

Jesus help me. I'm gonna run for it again.

In 3….2…1…

* * *

JESUS

FUCKING

CHRIST

WHAT THE FUCK.

Okay. Well, obviously I'm alive. That's a plus. I seem to be intact. That's better than I expected.

Especially considering how everything ended. Whew.

I'll explain, cause I know you're just dying to see how _this_ crazy delusion ends…

I ran out of my hiding spot and was immediately seen by at least five guards and policemen, who all started running at me, waving their guns around like idiots. I turned to run away, but just like before, BAM, Chupacabra, running towards me. And Mello behind it. Shooting at the Chupacabra. So there were bullets flying EVERYWHERE around me. Mello finally saw me and stopped shooting, and stopped just long enough for me to climb back on that blasted horse, and it all started up again. Fucking nuts. Briefly, I saw Near as we rode past, hidden amongst a display of plushies—where he looked more pleased with his surroundings than concerned for our safety—but there was no time to focus on him. At least he was safe, whereas we were most definitely _not_.

Mello solved the Chupacabra problem, at least. After I wasted my last bullet on a faulty shot, and he ran out of ammo, he did the only logical thing left.

He took the _grenade_ out of his pocket, pulled the pin, and chucked it right into the Chupacabra's path. BAM. No more Chupacabra.

THANK FUCKING GOD FOR THAT.

After that the only problem was getting out of there. We were both covered in chunks of guts, and I really need a shower, but aside from that, the pony was tired out, and those cops were _not_ happy. Finally, Mello did the smart thing and got off the horse, and I happily followed suit. We tore out of there as fast as we could—I ended up having to carry Near cause he was too damn slow—and we made it back to Mello's Hummer before the cops did. I think a few bullets bounced off us while we peeled out.

So now I'm back here, in Mello's Hummer, exhausted and happy to be alive. I think even Near realized how insane that was, because he stopped complaining about the music and is now sitting quietly in the backseat, clutching a large, goofy looking pink dragon plushie.

(Funny thing about dragons. They are most definitely not pink, or goofy looking. Trust me, I know.)

Hey Mello, do you think they saw your license plate? They were pretty close behind us, and it is broad daylight…

What do you mean fake license plate?

Oh what the fuck. I don't want to know why he has a fake license plate. I've already been in way too far over my head these last few days, and I'm too worn out to ask questions. Just let my life go back to being simple, is that too much to ask?

OH YES, SEVEN ELEVEN. BATHROOMS, I LOVE YOU.

...

Things seem to be calming down. This is good. Very good. We're taking Near back to his relatives—though Mello bought him some new clothes at Walmart, so he wouldn't have to go home all bloody and dirty. He promised to lie about where he'd been, and assured me that I'd have five hundred bucks in an envelope tomorrow morning.

He'd better follow through or I'll hunt him down to wherever it is that he comes from. I did not just risk my life for nothing, brat. GIVE ME MONEYS, I WANT TO EAT. I don't need much, just enough to pay the electricity bill, the internet bill, and maybe get me a take-out taco.

Well, Near's gone now. We dropped him off about a block from where he'd been staying. It was the classic picture of suburbia, and he stuck out like a sore thumb. I almost feel bad for him. But at least I get to go home now, get a nice shower, _relax_…play some of that new game I got, Lollipop Chainsaw...Ah, sounds so _good_ right now.

Oh, Mello, look, drive through! Mello, where are you going…but…drive through…I wanted those Big Macs…

What? You're taking me to your house? For dinner?

How…nice of you. Are you sure? Cool. Change of plans. No video games, but my belly will be happy. That's good enough for me.

But he'd still better let me use his shower. I don't think I can eat with guts all over me.

* * *

Oh my gosh this couch is _comfy_. My couch is a cheap, tattered one I found for sale by the side of the road. Mello's couch is suede leather and the whole thing is squishy as a pillow. I'd forgotten how much I love this couch. Hell, I'd forgotten how much I love being at Mello's house. It's so nice here.

His house is one of those newer styles, all modern and space-agey with pointy angles on the roof and big windows. It's really cozy inside, even though it's big—there's red carpets and black furniture, grey walls and dark yellow trim. It's pretty much the opposite of my barren, cold little flat with nothing but a couch, a TV and a table—he has everything, even a personal bar in the kitchen stocked with all sorts of liquor.

Anyway, the only reason I'm writing is because Mello's in the shower right now. I already took one (a long one, to get all the gore off) and now I have on the most casual things of Mello's I could find. He doesn't seem to have but one long sleeved shirt, which I am now wearing. No way would I fit into one of his tiny vests, besides, I don't have the abs to pull that off. His jeans are a little tight on me, but I think his jeans are a little tight on him too, he likes it that way. I can deal with it.

I think I'll have a look around. With all these rooms, one of them probably has something interesting.

Room one: not actually a room, but a huge walk in closet. Wow, I should have guessed.

Room two: spare bedroom. Oh look, Mello has a cat too! Aww, he's cute, a little black cat with yellow eyes. Is this who Mello is talking about when he mentions his friend named Skinner? I wanna pet him, I hope he's friendly. Aw, he hid under the bed. Come back, Skinner, LET ME LOVE YOU. Stupid skittish cat.

Room three: library. I wonder if Mello still reads nothing but crime novels. I think I'll take a look around. Mysteries…westerns? Mello likes westerns? Howdy, partner. Oh look, here's some mythology. Cool. I wonder if that's _my_ influence…

Room three: locked? Well, I can fix that. There, now it's _unlocked_. What's he hiding...? Boxes? What's in these?

Holy shit. Mello, what the hell is this? This is bad. Even _I_ know this is bad. No one should have an _entire_ _room_ full of boxes that are full of _guns_. I've got to get out of this room. If Mello catches me here, I'm dead.

Not really _dead_, but he'll be pissed. What is going on with him? I don't want to pry into his life, I mean, he's never done anything but help me, but now I'm worried. Mello's not a _mobster_, there's no way Ramona could be _right_. That would be ridiculous. But...unlimited money…fake license plate…room full of _guns_…

Mello, you'd better be careful. If you get killed, I…

OH SHIT MELLO'S COMING AND I'M STILL IN THE ROOM AND THE DOORS OPEN GODDAMNIT—

Hi Mello?

* * *

A/N: To make up for the last chapter being so short, I made this one a little longer. Oh, and don't worry guys, that won't be the last we see of Near. He's a pest, so he'll be back eventually. :) Please review?


	8. Conspiracy

**Matt, P.I.**

**8**

Well, just when I thought things couldn't get any more weird.

I now know exactly what Mello looks like when he has on absolutely nothing but a towel—really skinny and really lean.

I also know what his face looks like when he sees his best friend standing awkwardly in his secret arsenal.

Really displeased, and really…worried.

Here I expected to get my ass kicked from here to next week, but instead of yelling, or punching, or kicking, he just sort of…sighed, and looked all weary and ran his hand through his hair. He got all quiet, and muttered—to himself more than me—"Dammit, Matt, you weren't supposed to see that." I told him I was sorry (about five times), but he wouldn't even look in my eyes; he just went and sat on the couch with the towel pulled up around him and his legs all sprawled out—totally un-Mello-ish—and finally after this HUGE long AWKWARD AS HELL silence I asked if he was okay.

Bad idea. He responded with a long stream of dull profanity, but at the end of it, he did look at me. He sure as fuck wasn't okay. He looked so…scared.

Then he says, "Matt, what…what do you think you just saw?" His voice was shaking. MELLO'S VOICE WAS SHAKING. THAT JUST DOES NOT HAPPEN.

So I said, "Well, it looked to me like my best friend was taking some serious precautions to those zombies I warned him about." You know, never hurts to make a joke. Plus that's one of my things, when I'm nervous, I joke. It's gotten me slapped more than a few times by various dumbasses with no sense of humor, but this time, I was only trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work. He rolled his eyes and told me to be serious. So I told him the truth.

My shrink thinks you're in the mafia. I've noticed some things, but it really doesn't matter to me. You're not a bad person, I know this. It's your life.

Just please be careful. You're the only friend I have. You're the only friend I've ever had, since that stupid, fucked up day all those years ago.

Cue eye rolls and the sarcastic laugh. "It wouldn't matter to me anyway if you did care. It is my life. I wouldn't care even if you were mad."

He's such a liar sometimes. But I don't mind. He's lying to himself more than to me anyway. He knows it would matter. He knows he would care. What else would explain that look in his eyes? Ugh, why did everything have to turn so serious suddenly? Wasn't I here to chill out and eat dinner with my friend? Mello, goddamnit, I don't care why you have a room full of weapons. Make us something to eat. I'm starving. You'd be surprised how hungry you'll get when you're only running on worn out adrenaline and a few cheese crackers.

Anyway, in case you're wondering, I'm writing all this on the toilet. (No, not actually using it, the lid is closed.) Today was fucking INSANE. Mello's bathroom is so luxurious, this should be really nice. His soap smells like orange and spice, and his shampoo is that chocolate Axe. Not a bad combination. Plus he has FLUFFY AS FUCK towels. They're almost as squishy as his couch. I wish I had fluffy towels; I got mine at the Goodwill.

Well, I guess I'd better go back out there. Before he gets suspicious or anything.

* * *

Well, now it's eleven forty-eight at night, there's a Supernatural marathon on TV, and Mello's asleep on the armrest of the couch. (More correctly, he fell asleep on my shoulder, but I laid him back on the armrest when I got up to get a drink. He's a really heavy sleeper.) I'm not surprised he fell asleep; it was a really long day and he sure had his fair share of "fun." We left the whole awkward gun business behind us while we were eating (Chicken Marsala, _delicious_. I had no idea Mello could make Italian food. I was damn impressed. I wonder why he went so all-out.) I should really be getting home though. Skully needs fed, and I think my car is still parked at work. I'm tired too, actually—wine always makes me drowsy—and as much as I hate it, I have a meeting with Ramona again tomorrow. Stupid cunt, changing my schedule to twice a week. I don't have a choice though, if I don't go, well, Matt will be one very unhappy resident of the LA prison system. I should wake Mello up, because he'll have to drive me home.

Mello, hey Mello. I need to go home. Wake up, lazy bastard. I need a lift.

…

I wonder if he's awake enough to drive. He did have some wine too, at dinner. Eh, oh well. I've survived enough things; I can survive Mello's driving. He invited me to stay the night and enjoy some hot breakfast…but as much as I'd like to sleep on Mello's lavish pillows, I should get home. Though that spare bedroom I saw earlier looked nice…He said I could sleep in his bed, actually, but I don't think he thought that through because if I did that, where would he sleep? He must not be all there yet. He's got his coat now, and he's found his keys, so I have to go home. Home, sweet home. Where the couch is hard and the towels have holes. Maybe I should stay the night.

Nah. I have a hungry kitty at home who needs a body to cuddle. And who am I to deny her?

Agh, yes Mello, I'm coming. So impatient.

* * *

What is this I don't even

No fucking way

Oh fucking HELL no

MY CAR IS GONE. MY CAR. IS FUCKING. GONE.

THEY TOWED MY CAR. MY BEAUTIFUL SIXTY NINE MUSTANG IS SITTING IN AN IMPOUND SOMEWHERE. Cocky douchebags taped a happy little notice to my office door while I was gone—"We're sorry, but you parked in a no parking after 4pm space."

What the fuck. They found my secret parking spot? I always park behind the building, how the hell do they have rules for that? Not to mention that I've parked there a billion fricking times AFTER four. If there are gods, they must have decided to make my life hell. I can just see it now—"Hey, we're immortal, this is so boring, let's do something interesting today!" "Oh really? Like what?" "Let's traumatize the fuck out of some unsuspecting human!" "Yeah, that sounds like a blast!"

God fucking son of a cunt sucker. The fine is a hundred and fifty bucks. I don't have that check from Near until tomorrow morning, and there's a slight problem there: I have to get to an appointment tomorrow morning, and _I have no car to get to the damn place to pay the fine. _

And this is when I bang my head violently off the nearest hard object. Maybe I should call the impound place and explain to them nicely that if they do not release my baby in the next _half_ _hour_ I will seriously _kill_ them, because if I miss that appointment, I'll go to jail anyway, so why the hell not? Yeah, like that would work. Then I'd just get charged with threats. (Why are threats even a crime? That's so ridiculous. That's like getting fined for hurting somebody's feelings. Idiots.) I came in here to call the place, but instead I'm just writing. More like ranting, but still. I don't know what I'm going to do. Mello's idling outside waiting for me and I don't know what I'm going to tell him. FUCK. MY. LIFFFE.

Hey Mello, can I borrow a hundred and fifty? Like, now? Yeah, cause he'll be really pleased about that, but what other option do I have. DAMNIT, I'M NOT DEPENDANT. THE GOVERNMENT IS MAKING ME A LEECH. IT'S A CONSPIRACY, I TELL YOU.

I guess I'd better go ask him. Urrrgh.

I guess I'll say the good news first and _then_ the bad news.

Mello happily agreed to loan me the money, and completely did not care at all. We drove all the way to the impound at twelve thirty am, ranting in a surprisingly carefree manner about how all these cops and shrinks should all go die in a fire. I was happy, because maybe, I thought, _maybe_, tomorrow would go better than last time.

Then we got there, and they were closed.

And my car is still trapped behind a twelve foot razor-wire fence and a couple of Dobermans.

(At this point of the journey, I actually got out of the car, fell on the ground, and shouted WHY MOTHER JESUS FUCKER while hysterically laughing, but that's beside the point.) Mello drove me home, and since we both knew I'd be too jittery to sleep anyway, he came up to my apartment and we brainstormed on what to do. I don't use cabs. (My own personal paranoia.) It's too far to walk, and I don't own a bicycle. Mello offered to go home and get his motorbike and bring it here for me in the back of his hummer—which was a great idea, if I knew how to drive it. But I don't.

He promised to come visit me in prison, which actually made me feel a little better—not.

Then we decided, well, Mello could always stay here for the night and give me a ride in the morning. He'd have to sit in the waiting room while I met with Ramona, but that option was still a lot better than jail. So it was decided. Mello will meet Ramona tomorrow morning, and Mello will help me remain a free man.

MELLO IS MEETING RAMONA TOMORROW MORNING. Well, actually, considering the time, it's really later _this_ morning, but still. MELLO. AND RAMONA. TOGETHER. TALKING. HE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND HOW BAD THIS IS. Stupid Mello, sleeping like a baby on my couch while I freak the fuck out in my tiny uncomfortable bed. Like I could even _try_ to sleep. What if some jealous douche keys my car? What if Near doesn't pay me, and then Ramona reads my notes and decides I'm crazy and I have to take meds all for something I didn't get paid for? What if Mello punches Ramona? What if _I_ punch Ramona? I really might. In our agreement the other day, she said she'd show me her notes from now on so I don't have to take them. She said it might be "good for me to see the truth."

OH GOD RAMONA AND MELLO KILL ME NOW, JUST DO IT.

* * *

A/N: I AM SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT! I know this chapter wasn't even anything good, especially after all that waiting, but please bear with me. My life got super busy this past week, and since we only have the one computer, whenever my mom uses it for her job search, I can't write. D: I promise this story is not on haitus and will NEVER BE on haitus. There was just a lot going on with me the past few days and then I got writer's block. But it's gone now, don't worry! New chaps will keep coming, I swear! :D Please review? I know it wasn't the best but it was sooo hard to do. Stupid block. :P


	9. Dashing

**Matt, P.I.**

**9**

Well it's morning now. I really wish it wasn't.

I'm running on about three hours of sleep—the results of late night excursions to the stupid car impound place, followed by a late night panic attack. It's not like I have any actual diagnosed anxiety disorders or anything, I just tend to have meltdowns at ungodly hours of the night when EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE IS OUT TO GET ME. Trust me, you'd probably do the same thing in my position. Nothing has gone right recently. Nothing. I mean come _on_, I'm even out of Monster now, as if everything else wasn't bad enough. Now I don't even have anything to wake me up. Although maybe that's okay, considering what happened _last_ time.

It really doesn't help that Mello is such an energetic morning person. He's always full of energy, but in the morning, it's like _insane_. Right now he's in the kitchen making breakfast while dancing in an oddly sensual manner to a song he is singing to himself. I don't know what it's called, but the lyrics are something along the lines of "Yeah I'm not a good boy and I can do it some more something-something-something tick tick tick boom!" I guess it would be catchy if I weren't so tired. Watching Mello dance is always amusing though. I think he tries to dance sexily, and if he polished it up a bit he would look _quite_ a lot like a stripper, but unfortunately for him, he has no idea what he looks like. Right now he's trying to headbang and do sexy hip movements at the same time but it's really not working. I guess his hair does look a little less girly when it's messed up though.

Never tell him I said that. He'd probably do something gross to my food if he knew I called his hair girly.

He keeps telling me to get off my ass and go get ready, but I don't wanna. I got up for long enough to come in here and collapse again onto the couch—still all nice and warm from where Mello had slept—and I don't want to ever get up again. I just want to lay here and relax, and sleep…

Oi, okay Mello. I'll get up, just don't eat my breakfast. I don't have a lot of food and I sure as hell didn't buy it so you could hog it all. Urg. What did he even find to make in there?

Crackers, spray cheese in a can, and one apple. Hm. Better than I expected. I guess I'd better go in there and eat, if I want to have any energy at all. Then I can go get dressed. And I have to remember to give him back those clothes I borrowed last night…

Why does my stove clock say six thirty?

Mello, you have got to be kidding. You got me up an hour _early_? Early risers, I swear, what do they not understand about the concept of _rest_? Screw this, I'm gonna eat breakfast and go back to bed.

* * *

Oh the joys of waiting rooms. The only places where you'll find psychedelic art on the walls while classical music plays endlessly. All while an old lady stares creepily out at you over top of her trifocals, you know, just to make sure you don't kill anyone. It's so freezing in this place that I'm starting to suspect they do it on purpose just to make you uncomfortable. And I have on long sleeves even. Maybe it's just me. How long is she going to keep us sitting here? It's past time for the appointment. Stupid ho, gypping me out of money. I bet I still have to pay for this time.

I guess I should maybe mention before I go in there that just in case this all goes horribly wrong, I keep my spare key under the lawn gnome. It's out front of the building, you'll see it. He's pretty cute, looks a bit like Santa. All the rest of the people in my apartment complex hide their keys there too—safety in numbers I guess—but mine is the only one with a triforce drawn on it.

Oh look, there she is.

FUCK!

* * *

Oh gosh.

Oh, where do I even begin.

There is no fucking way

No fucking words right now

I think I might pass out or something

This is not

MY LIFE IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS. It's my life, how is this even legal? How can they force me to go to therapy against my will? Why can't they just fucking leave me _alone_.

Uggghhhhh

Mello, goddamnit.

I should probably be happy a little right now, because Ramona says she won't be needing to read my journal anymore. That means I don't have to write any of this, actually. So why am I still writing?

Because by tomorrow, this journal…well, I guess it's my best friend now.

No, no, no, Mello and I are fine. He's still going to be there for me. He's Mello. He's always been there. He won't just forget me. I'm a hard guy to forget.

Right?

Cause if he forgets me, there's no way he'll remember to take care of Skully. Maybe I should just give her to him. Maybe her and Skinner would be friends and kitty-cuddle on that squishy couch.

Thank you so much, Ramona. Thanks for RUINING MY LIFE. Thanks for being a CONCIETED CUNT who thinks she knows EXACTLY what's going on in my head. Thanks, so, so fucking much for everything.

I'm going to write everything down before I really do go crazy. That way when I flip, I'll know exactly who to kill.

She read my whole entry about the Chupacabra, with a very serious look on her face. About halfway through I knew this wouldn't end well, but at that point, I was too stubborn to care. It was the truth. The truth, dammit! She can't do anything to me, because it's all true. I wish I really believed that.

The only good thing was what happened when she met Mello. Shocking, huh? I was expecting all hell to break loose…but Mello…oh my gosh it was so hilarious. I nearly died.

He'd borrowed some of my clothes this morning and I didn't really think anything of it. He did stay the night, after all. I figured he picked stuff he knew I didn't wear very often, so I wouldn't miss them—a pair of faded, light blue skinny jeans, striped converse, and a black shirt with little blue stars all over it. He put his hair up into a ponytail as well, but then again, it was hot as balls out. There was no way I ever could have imagined what happened when he met Ramona.

When she walked out, he literally JUMPED up and HUGGED her. He then proceeded to gain a lisp, a perky stance, animated hand gestures, and a penchant for using the word "dashing."

Dashing, as in, "Oh you, Matty's told me so much about you! But he never mentioned how absolutely _dashing_ your hair is!"

I knew Mello could act—he does it all the time with the detectives he works with—but I never knew he could act _that_ well. By the end of it, even I was almost believing that he was queer as glittery cupcakes. Ramona looked absolutely confused as fuck and a little embarrassed at all the attention he was giving her. They had a friendly small-talk chat about the weather and such, until finally she seemed overwhelmed and practically dragged me back there to get away from him. When we got in the room, she had to take a moment to catch her breath before looking at me and saying first, "_That's_ Mello?" then, "Well, he's very…er, nice." He had her fooled great by the end of it. Now she thinks he's harmless as a puppy—and that the only reason that I had put such suspicious things about him _must_ be that I had _paranoia_ as well as delusions. She said something about me equating him subconsciously with my father. Eh, I was just relieved she wasn't going to read my notes and decide to search his house for those guns. Apparently, that was all a hallucination that I had while Mello was in the shower. Hahahahaha.

So that was all great and fine and for a few minutes I thought my life might be okay again for a while until she started dissecting my notes with her stupid shrink mind.

I'm "becoming progressively more and more lost in a fantasy world."

I'm "becoming a danger not only to myself, but also to society."

She "can't release that I was the one who wreaked havoc on the fairgrounds, due to patient confidentiality, but she can't let me run rampant any longer."

"I'm putting you on mandatory medications."

"Well, I'm not fucking taking them."

"Then you won't like where you'll be going."

And that's where I made the worst decision of my life. Because, that's when I said, "Fine then, DO IT. I FUCKING DARE YOU. Don't come to me when a werewolf rips your heart out."

She decided that that was tantamount to a death threat, that I was unfit to live in society, and that I needed to be supervised until I could prove that I wasn't a hazard to the peace.

Strike one was up.

The Chupacabra, was apparently strike two.

I blew my last chance on a sarcastic comment. Of all the things. Why couldn't I have at least done something _cool_? If I had known I'd blow it, I'd have done it way better. Like pretend to be possessed or something. Scare the shit out of her and get my dignity back. Ugh. It doesn't matter now.

Because I'm screwed now. Nothing will ever be the same because I'm a sarcastic dumbass.

Wanna know where I am?

I'm locked in a "safe-room" in Ramona's office, meant for violent psychos. She kicked Mello out on his ass and told him he could "do better than me." He cussed her until she threatened to call the cops, and I was more than a little proud of how many different insults he could think of, but I was glad he left. I didn't want the cops to get him, that could get him fired. I didn't want anything else bad co come of this.

I didn't want him to see me being dragged away in cuffs.

There's an ambulance on the way, she's told me. Coming to take me off to LA's finest looney-bin. Where I'll be watched, prodded, medicated, and locked up 24/7. And possibly stuck in with some other godawful crazy in a room too small for the both of us. I should have never taken that case from Near. It's not like I'll even see any of the money from it now. It will probably sit in my mailbox and mold while my tires go flat in the impound.

I hate her so, so so fucking much.

Although, on the upside, they can have fun medicating me, cause you can't drug away the truth. I'll be a pain in their ass forever, I guess.

I think I hear the ambulance.

Oh god, here we go.

* * *

A/N: Once again, so sorry for the long wait! Meh, you guys must be getting so annoyed with me. I promise there is still loads to happen in this story so please don't give up on it! By the way, the song Mello was singing was "Tick tick boom" by the Hives. :) And the therapist's office is actually based on the office of a shrink I had to go to back in middle school. (Funny story- They thought I was crazy because I had Mello as my imaginary friend. xD ) Anyway, please review and berate me all you want for updating late with my short chapters. Reviews feed Matt's kitty. :D ALSO, (sorry for the long a/n) but I just wanted to thank all of you AWESOME reviewers! This story has so many reviews, the most I ever had on a story before this was 18. ;w; Thanks guys! ^w^


	10. Mostly Harmless

**Matt, P. I.**

**10**

I feel very, very, very violated. Like, extremely. These people have got to be a bunch of social perverts themselves to be doing this shit for a living.

Have I mentioned that I feel violated?

First, on the damn ambulance they asked me about a bazillion and two REALLY personal questions—what color is your natural hair color (idiots), what's your blood type, when did you have sex last, have you had sex with a MAN…It was really hard to not punch them all in the throat (fuck, I really could have gotten off on insanity again). But I managed to restrain. Mostly because they had actual _restraints_ right there, and I _really_ didn't want to know if they were comfy or not. But still. I saw Mello through this tiny little window, very briefly and he was a few blocks from Ramona's office sitting on top of his Hummer waving furiously. I waved back, but more for my own satisfaction than his. He couldn't see me.

I wonder what he'll do for fun now. Looks like there won't be any more late night jersey devil hunts for us. I hope he doesn't do anything nuts. That would be so like him.

I stopped worrying about him for a bit when they dragged me inside that godforsaken building—all brick and square and mildly Victorian looking, and dreadfully old (definitely a ghost haven)—and began the whole "institutionalization" process. It began with the confiscation of ALL of my personal items. In other words, there goes my DS, my pocket knife, my wallet, my spare packet of ketchup, and my GOGGLES.

They took my goggles. What the hell am I supposed to do without my goggles? What if I _need_ them? What if they get stolen, or _broken_, or lost? Nonononononono not my goggles not my goggles why why why

Arrrggh

Anyway.

So then came the cavity search.

And then they took my clothes.

So now I'm stuck in this horrible grey outfit that's drafty and scratchy and the top button chokes me so I have to leave it open, which means all these creeps can see my pale gamer chest.

And by "these creeps" I mostly just mean my roommate.

OH GOD I THINK HE MIGHT KILL ME. They told me he's just like me but with a little touch of sociopathy, and that _no, he'd never hurt anybody_ but I really don't quite believe them. There's just something about his eyes. The eyes of somebody who can look through your skin and see all your organs and decide which ones look tasty, then make plans about just how to cook them, like "_hmm well maybe that spleen would be really juicy grilled with some carrots." _Plus he even LOOKS crazy. He's paler than I am. His hair is all dark and stringy like it used to be gelled but now it's just greasy. And his eyes are yellow. YELLOW EYES. WTF WHO HAS YELLOW EYES. And a little while ago he actually asked me what color his eyes are. Like he didn't know. How can you not know your own eye color? Jerk. He's too skinny and his fingers are too long.

I don't know though, this outfit makes me look pretty skinny too. Maybe I look crazy too. Maybe that's why everyone's been out to get me recently, maybe they decided I look crazy so they have to lock me up. I don't look crazy, do I? I'm only pale cause I _can't_ tan, I just freckle (I just stay out of the sun, cause I hate my freckles.) My hair isn't dyed anything weird. The only weird thing about my appearance is my goggles and the fact that I wear long sleeves year round. My arms are scrawny. I don't want to get freckles on them.

Okay, maybe I am a little strange. But at least my name is normal. Well, maybe a little abnormal, but it's still a _human_ name. You can trace back my ancestry—I come from a whole line of pale fuckers with the last name Jeevas. My new roommate, on the other hand…his last name is _Birthday_. Fucking _Birthday_. And his first name is Beyond. Beyond Birthday. _Beyond_ _Birthday_. If there is any other human being on this planet with the last name of Birthday, then you can shoot me now.

Why is he staring at me. He's staring at me WHY IS HE STARING AT ME WHY IS HE DOING THAT STOP IT IT'S CREEPY YOU FUCK.

Do I have to be friends with this guy? Cause I'm stuck with him 24 hours a day and he's reaaaally unnerving. I AM A SANE PERSON STUCK IN A HOUSE OF NUTCASES. I guess I should at least _try_ to make friends with him, maybe…he's creepy enough that maybe if I'm friends with him other crazies might not bother me.

Though I really wish my bed was more than four feet away from his. I don't know if I can sleep with him near me.

Ha, who the fuck am I kidding? I'll never sleep in here. This is a nightmare. I'm sitting here on this creaky bed in this tiny room with one little barred window, with this GUY staring at me, and I know something is definitely not right in this place.

For one, why is it so cold? I mean, maybe it's that this shirt is irksomely short sleeved, and that the AC is going strong for the summer, but it should not be this cold. I have goose-bumps. Ick.

Two, the lights in the lobby flickered when they brought me in. In a place like this, with generators and high tech locks, there shouldn't be any lighting malfunctions. AND YET.

Three, this place doesn't have a very good history. Actually, if you look it up, none of LA's mental hospitals have very good histories—I see headlines sometimes in the newspapers around town. Where there is bad history, there's bad energy—and sometimes, bad spirits.

Although, maybe for now I should focus primarily on my potentially bad roommate. I know he can't be too bad, or they wouldn't have put him in this ward—we're in the "mostly harmless" category—but he still freaks me out. The nurse said we would get along. I wonder why. I guess I'll have to talk to him at some point. I'm lucky and all that they let me keep this notebook—since it was a part of my original treatment plan, they decided to go along with it and let me have it. I just have to write in felt tip pen now (no pencils allowed)—but I do have to do other things than write. Besides, I don't even like writing that much. I'm just _bored_.

I wonder how Mello is. I wonder if he's going to shoot Ramona. I wonder if he remembered my car. Probably so; he gave it to me after all. I wonder if he'll really come see me.

HE'S STILL STARING AT MEEEEE WHAT IS THIIIIIS

I'll say hi.

There. Hi.

…

Well, I learned some things about "Beyond Birthday."

He likes to be called B. Like the letter. Reminds me of Mello's friend L that I mentioned a while ago, (page 12, right after my first close call with Ramona.) I never knew so many people liked to go by letters. Initials? Anyway, he's in here for the same thing as me—delusions and hallucinations. He explained it all in a very smooth, oddly logical manner—that ever since he was born, he could see the name of any person written in red letters above their heads…as well as the day they would die. Creepy. Very creepy. And occasionally he had this way of seeing these strange creatures. _Shinigami_. Japanese gods of death.

At least now I know why the nurse thought we'd get along. He believes in shinigami. The only other people I've seen that believed in shinigami were all teenage otakus. Most people don't even know what they are. I asked him how he found out what a shinigami was, and he replied with an eye roll, and said, "I asked one what it was, _duh_."

He says he shouldn't even be in here at all, because he's not making anything up.

Maybe we have more in common than I thought. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

BUT WHY DOES HE KEEP LAUGHING? IS SOMETHING FUNNY?

He better not be laughing at my name. I told him to call me Matt.

Oh god, what if he's laughing at my death-day.

Oh god, do I believe him?

No, I'm not writing in my _diary_, B! And no, you can't read it. Ugh this guy is so nosy. Five minutes into our conversation earlier he started asking me shit about my life. You know, the classic stuff—"So, was your mom a prostitute too?" He asked me if I sneaked in any strawberries, and when I said, "Uh, no?" he wailed and bashed his face off his mattress. (?) This will definitely be hard to get used to.

Oh great, now the nurses are doing the medicine rounds. Here's another wonderful thing about this place—I'm supposed to take drugs. Anti-psychotics, actually. I don't know how this is going to work, seeing as I'm NOT CRAZY, but I just hope it doesn't do anything too bad…my dose isn't supposed to be too bad…

Maybe the nurse will let me off a bit. She seemed nice. The opposite of Ramona—friendly, brunette, and motherly. When she was bringing me to my room she chattered on and on about how she thought my job was _sooo_ _cool _because she just loved that TV show called Ghost Hunters. She asked me if I'd had any encounters with ghosts, and I said yes—and then she goes, "ME TOOO!" And tells me all about some house she used to live in.

How is it that when I talk about weird stuff, I get locked up, but this lady can do it and WORK here? Meh, at least she believes me. Well, about the ghost, anyway. I haven't told her about any of my other adventures, but she's probably read about them in my file.

B, what are you doing? B, stop it.

The nurse is giving him his meds, and he's HITTING ON HER. B STOP IT SHE'S LIKE FIFTY. Oh lord.

I cannot believe he just said that. "_My hypothalamus must be secreting serotonin because baby, I want you!" _What does that even _mean_? And she's _giggling_. Why do I get the feeling this happens every day? "_Are you happy to see me, or is that just a defense mechanism?" _SOME ONE GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Oh god it's my turn.

* * *

A/N: For once, a chapter that's relatively calm. O.o Hehe, we'll see how long things stay that way. xD Sorry for not much Mello in this chap, but don't be fooled, this is still a MxM story! There's just some B in it too. :D Hopefully all of you readers love B as much as I do! He's just so fun to write about. There will be much more B in the next chapter. :) Review please? I love to hear from you all!


	11. Beyond Strange

A/N: Oh shit guys, I am so incredibly soory for the long wait. You have no idea how bad I feel about it. I just had the worst writer's block, and everything was so busy recently, I barely had any time to write and then when I did I didn't know what to put. D: Even though I've been writing DN stories for about five and a half years now, this is my first one with B in it, so I really didn't have a clue how to write his character. Which made the beginning of this chap super hard. xP But even though this chapter is short, at least I FINALLY updated. (Still sorry!) Also I figured I should clarify- when I said B's eyes were yellow, it's because I figured Matt wouldn't be able to see the Shinigami eyes unless he had them too. Otherwise in the LABB book B would have been pretty easy to spot, so...but anyway, that's why. Also, since my life has gotten more hectic and since I'll be going back to school soon for my senior year, I'm probably going to start updating once a week, unless I really get on a writing streak. :/ I'm really sorry guys, please bare with me? **  
**

* * *

**Matt, P.I.**

**11**

_Well, well, Matty-kun has a diary_. I know I shouldn't pry, but it's just so tempting! He's a nice boy, he won't mind if I say hello. Not that I would really care if he did.

This is B, if it is not already apparent. I just can't resist sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong. I was hoping for more…_juiciness_ in this little book but alas, it seems I was mistaken. Matt really does lead the life of a gamer, so it seems. I might just have to spice things up for him.

It's so exciting to finally have a roommate! So many new possibilities. I could never pull anything off by myself, but I bet with Matty's puppy charm we can have some fun. He's such a cute boy, but he doesn't know it, and that will make this all the more fun. (Yes, Matty-kun, you are cute. Nothing is more cute than a socially awkward firecrotch with daddy issues, you may as well accept that.) He's even cuter when he sleeps. Look at him over there. He's drooling on his pillow and…oh look, he's twitching. I wonder what he's dreaming about. Games? Monsters? That _Mello_ he's mentioned quite a few times in this book of his? Me?

I really do love the color of his hair. It's like ginger with a dark side. The color of strawberries mixed with a tiny bit of blood. He says it's natural. That's even more alluring.

I wonder if he smells like strawberries.

Awwwww, he doesn't. He smells like that soap he wrote about that was at Mello's house. That's so disappointing. I would have loved to nickname him Ichigo-kun. Or Ichi-kun. I could always pronounce it _ecchi _and make it even more fun.

But I guess not, because Ichigo doesn't really fit him after all. He's not Japanese. But it's always so much fun to pretend! I like to pretend I'm lots of things. My personal favorite is my alter –ego Rue Ryuzaki, a 20 year old Japanese man who loves coffee and disguises his _zetsubou _by eating nothing but sweets—happy food. Of course, I'm not Japanese or depressed, and I actually hate coffee. (That's where the sugar comes in. Pour enough in, and the coffee taste is _gone_.) Out in the world I was always Ryuzaki-san. Mostly just for the convenience of not having to explain my name every time I said it, but it was also really interesting. Like I could watch what I was doing from inside my own head, but it wasn't really me. _Like I was a person in someone else's mind_.

Pardon me, I was rambling. I don't think Matt will mind though. He rambles on and on all the time, so it would be rather hypocritical of him to judge.

I still need to come up with a good nickname for Matty. Everyone needs a good nickname. Their names are so obvious just floating there. So public.

Hmm…

Perhaps…something with meaning…something that defines his character…something mysterious…

Nah, I think I'd rather it be something that annoys the hell out of him.

I shall call him…Foxy.

Red Hair, pointy nose. Fits perfectly.

* * *

What IS this I don't _even—_

AUGGGGHHHHH

He is such a freak. Such a FREAK. He wrote in my _journal_. He watched me _sleep_, and called me CUTE. And he _smelled_ me. While I was _sleeping_.

He fucking ***SMELLED*** me.

What the fucking hell?

Also I DO NOT have daddy issues. And he is not allowed to call me Matty, the only person who EVER calls me Matty is Mello, and that's usually when he's drunk. I will never ever respond to anyone calling me "Foxy" either.

YOU HEAR THAT B? BEYOND BIRTHDAY, RUE RYUZAKI, WHOEVER THE HELL THAT WAS LAST NIGHT? I know you're going to read this again, cause you're a CREEP.

God, what a nutcase. Well, I guess that should be obvious because of where I am, but ugh. Great, now I have Rob Zombie in my head. "_Foxy, Foxy, what's it gonna be?" _Curse my love of horror movies and their creators. Now that stupid name is going to get stuck in my brain.

I am soooo glad he's in counseling right now. Of course, after this we have to go to _group_ _therapy_, which will be delightful, but that's beside the point. I get an hour without B! One glorious hour where I don't have to worry about getting surreptitiously sniffed. I almost want to high five myself or something just to celebrate. But I think that might be considered a little…crazy.

Anywhooo, on another note, the lights flickered again this morning. Like I've said before, that shouldn't be happening. Definitely something to look out for. Something else to watch—where in the building do the lights flicker? Is it just my room? That would be soooo fitting. I knew something like that would happen here, some horrible ghostie or something else awful. Anyway. I'm not going to spend my whole free hour writing. In fact, I think I'll get some nice, uninterrupted and creeper-free sleepy time.

* * *

Well, group therapy. That was _enthralling_. Being stuck in a room with a bunch of psychos for an hour and a half. And I had to introduce myself and tell them alllll about "why I was here." Great. And since I'm trying very hard to get out of here as fast as I can, I had to pretend like I was totally cool with my "craziness" and that I "knew I had been mistaken." JERKS. I WAS NOT FRICKING MISTAKEN; I SAW EVERY DAMN CREATURE I'VE EVER KILLED AND THEY WERE NOT HALLUCINATIONS! B was in group with me, and he seemed to enjoy the hell out of it, like it was some opportunity to show off how weird he is. He kept talking about knowing my name before the nurse told him and seeing the day I'm going to die. Somebody asked him when, and he said, "I can't say because the _shinigami_ told me not to." The nurses and doctors all exchanged looks, but the other patients seem to look up to him like a god or something. On the upside, at least he's spreading the word about relatively unheard of legendary beings. Even if it is to a small group of mental patients. Still, he told them all to call me Foxy. If I could have smacked him without being sedated, I would have. Instead I just glared and tried to look menacing. He laughed.

Urg, anyways, now I'm back with B, and I'm using this as an excuse not to talk to him. He keeps saying, "Foxyyyyy, let's play a game!" and I keep giving him the finger. Why can't he leave me alone? Why couldn't I have been put in a room with that quiet guy in group with us who only wanted to talk about the llamas in his bedroom?

He keeps looking at me and smiling. Is that, like, his favorite pass-time? It's practically all he's done since I got here. I can understand being excited to have a roommate but he takes it a little too far.

He's getting up now and

UGHHHH WHAT THE HELL!

Oh that is it

…

Sorry about that. Sometimes creepy fucks just NEED to be punched. Which I just did. Luckily the guard didn't see me. And of course, B's laughing incessantly now. Nice to know I made an impact. I guess my gamer-smoker muscles aren't exactly the best for violence.

But come on, he deserved it. Cause he LICKED me. Right on the FACE! Fucking freak. He said I don't taste like strawberries either, and now he's "disappointed."

What, _why_ does he think that I would taste like strawberries and _in what universe is it okay to lick strange people who you didn't even know two days ago_? Disgusting, now his DNA is all over me. Ick. Now it's on my sleeve.

If he doesn't stop laughing I'm seriously going to have an aneurism. He doesn't even laugh like a normal person. He laughs like some weird hyena mixed with a crow or something. I'm normal, my laughs sound like "ha." His are like, "kyahahaha." How do you even _make_ that noise?

OH SHIT THOUGHTS. WHY DOES MY BRAIN DO THIS TO ME.

What if B's not human? What if B's actually a shinigami? Who knows what a shinigami would act like. What if he's why the lights are flickering? What if he sees the day I'm going to die because_ he's going to kill me?_?

No, stop-it self, you're just paranoid and in a new place and freaked out. B is not a shinigami and he's not going to kill you. He's just a normal, average, mostly-harmless crazy guy. He's completely insane. And completely human.

And now the lights just went out completely.


End file.
